


Payback

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: AU, Anger, Depression, Deviates From Canon, Distrust, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-20 03:30:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14252091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: This is a story that takes place after Neal heeded Peter’s warning on the steps of the Federal Building while his partner was confronting Philip Kramer. Neal had immediately taken wing and thought that he was now safe halfway around the world in a country that had no extradition treaty with the United States. Of course, we know what happened next, but my story veers from canon in a very big way. As Mozzie once said, “There are no happy endings for guys like us.”





	1. The Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wcfan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wcfan).



> This story was created in response to a request made by wcfan.

Neal decided that his present situation was about as bad as it could get, and he suspected that a past spontaneous action was most likely the cause of this current trouble. Months before, a tantalizing opportunity regarding a Nazi treasure had presented itself, and it had set the wheels in motion for what was happening now. Of course, the con man hadn't actually been the one to make that stupendous treasure disappear into thin air. That had been Mozzie's opportunistic magic trick. But Neal wasn’t totally innocent. He had succumbed to temptation and gone along with it after the fact. Being able to see, if not touch, great masterpieces from history gave him a high as good as any drug could provide. The next magic sleight of hand was Neal’s responsibility. It was imperative that he kept that secret tucked away while fending off the suspicion and distrust of his FBI handler.

Neal was savvy enough to understand human nature. The con man knew that Peter's anger all stemmed from a deep-seated sense of betrayal and a feeling that Neal had played him for a fool. How quickly the FBI agent had jettisoned the sense of allegiance forged while trying to dismantle a bomb aboard an antiquated WWII submarine. Obviously, none of that mattered to an irate man on a mission to take Neal down. Neal had endured the glaring stares and even a crude version of a polygraph test. It had set the tone for the new rules on their playing field. So be it. He could endure!

It had worked for a while. Neal studied his treasure cam by night but walked a tightrope by day in a dangerous game of parry and thrust with Peter. He was desperately juggling a lot of balls and trying to keep everything together on two fronts. He struggled to hobble Mozzie's enthusiastic plan to bolt, and continually had to tamp down the bald man’s insistence to sell a few things to finance their escape. Neal also had to keep one step ahead of Peter. That man was like a pit bull with a bone. His partner had even brought in reinforcements—namely, a nasty old coot from Peter's days in Washington DC. Philip Kramer was a pontificating ass, but Neal plastered a pleasant smile on his face and ran circles around the blowhard. Kramer had his suspicions, just like Peter, but neither man could prove a damn thing.

Then another evil golem arrived on the scene right out of Neal's nightmares. Matthew Keller’s greed superseded Mozzie’s, and he played dirty. He absconded with the most precious of all treasures, namely Peter Burke’s wife. Neal walked into the lion’s den right after the kidnapping and fully expected that Peter would kill him with his bare hands. He probably may have if Neal wasn’t a necessary pawn who could barter the ill-gotten riches for Elizabeth’s life. Of course, in the end, ever-resourceful Elizabeth had saved herself, but Peter and Neal’s relationship had taken a direct hit and was now distorted out of the shape that it once was.

Nevertheless, both men made a valiant attempt to resurrect a partnership that seemed tainted. However, there were now new twists. Peter had learned to keep his own secrets. He knew that Philip Kramer was determined to topple Neal by any means, but Neal’s handler didn’t warn his CI of what was in the works. Peter knew that Kramer didn’t want to send the brilliant con man to prison. He coveted the young man’s expertise and wanted his own success statistics at the Washington DC Bureau to soar as Peter’s had done in New York. Perhaps the duplicitous old man even convinced himself that he was going to take Neal away to protect Peter from compromising himself. Peter knew that was all a pile of rhetoric that smelled like manure. He realized that Kramer was into a malicious little vendetta of his own—end of story. At the eleventh hour, Peter remembered where his true loyalties lay, and he sent Neal away to a life on the run. He probably thought that he had done the right thing, but his “good intentions” came with terrible repercussions for Neal.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now, in faraway and exotic Cape Verde, Neal found himself handcuffed and stuffed in a cage like an animal. The escaped felon had plenty of time to ponder his situation as he worked at freeing himself of the cuffs and the iron bars that surrounded him. He was determined not to remain like a mouse caught in a trap for very long. He was resourceful and hoped that he could eventually pull it off. In the meantime, his mind was as busy as his hands.

Neal found that he didn’t really harbor any animosity toward Henry Dobbs, the overseer of this little fiefdom. There was no honor among thieves. The man was a criminal like himself, and there certainly was no code of ethics between men of their ilk. You looked out for yourself and betrayed others with no remorse.

Neal couldn’t even bring himself to hate Philip Kramer. Neal knew what it was like to want something so badly that you were willing to utilize extreme measures to get it. The DC Agent had quickly dispatched an FBI bounty hunter from the Bureau to pick up Neal’s trail. Agent Kyle Collins was a gunslinger as tenacious as a bloodhound, and a very lethal threat when tracking his quarry. Nevertheless, he wasn’t the first G-man to dog Neal’s steps, and he probably wouldn’t be the last.

Above all, Neal was a realist and knew where he should rightfully place the blame for his current dilemma. And that was squarely at Peter Burke’s doorstep. Neal’s former partner couldn’t seem to cut the cord that had once bound them together. Neal was angry that the FBI agent had compromised Ellen Parker’s privacy in a witness protection program that was set up to insure her safety. Peter had put the one person at risk who had cared for Neal as a young child. By playing on her trusting sensibilities, he had managed to figure out Neal’s hideaway. Of course, he had then immediately zeroed in on Neal’s island paradise like a homing pigeon and, in doing so, had brought Collins along for the ride.

Yes, Neal was facing hard facts as his hands suddenly became free. Peter was smart, probably almost as smart as Neal. He had tediously followed clues and figured out the fleeing man’s location. But Neal reasoned that he was also too smart and clever to have clumsily left his discoveries in plain view for invaders to stumble upon with very little effort. Peter would or _should_ have been more careful and shrewd. After all, he had past experience with invasive FBI agents slinking into his home to plant their bugs. Had he totally forgotten about Garrett Fowler?

So, okay, maybe Neal should cut Peter some slack. Perhaps what he had done, or not done, was totally unintentional, but rather an action sanctioned by his subconscious mind. Maybe Peter had never really gotten past Elizabeth’s abduction and that whole convoluted ball of emotional wax. It was not out of the realm of possibility that he had never really forgiven Neal. Oh, sure, Peter had taken the first available flight around the world to warn Neal about Collins. However, Neal’s former partner didn’t have the decency to admit that he had fucked up, intentionally or not, and brought this whole new danger down on Neal’s head. Why couldn’t Peter have gotten on with his own life and let Neal be? Maybe he was simply out for payback.

Neal’s psychological musing were interrupted when he saw Dobbs and Collins enter the cellar room. Dobbs looked nervous while Collins looked predatory. Neal felt trapped and vulnerable, especially when Collins drew his gun. It would be akin to shooting fish in a barrel. Dobbs may have been a slick embezzler, but he was never one for violence, so he beat a hasty retreat. Collins, however, looked like a voracious and deadly shark.

The stocky, well-muscled agent entered the barred enclosure, whirled Neal around, and used a zip tie to tightly restrain his hands behind his back once again. Then the butt of Collins' gun came down hard against Neal's temple, causing the young man to sway on the cusp of consciousness. There was a ringing in Neal's ears and his vision turned hazy as he tried to stay upright. His balance was already precarious from having his hands restrained behind his back, so he was about to go down for the count when Collins caught his arm. The federal bounty hunter then manhandled his captive over to the only object in the cell, a long wooden bench. Without losing a step, he pushed Neal facedown over its rough surface so that the injured man’s head almost touched the floor as blood trickled steadily past his ear.

Neal was incapable of lucid thought at this point, but he could still hear and feel. He felt his trousers being quickly wrenched past his hips, and he heard a zipper ominously descend behind him. The next sensation was one of pure agony as Collins shoved himself into Neal with frenzied haste. Neal cried out in pain as delicate muscle was stretched and torn apart and the soft intimate tissues beyond were mangled and lacerated. The assault seemed to go on forever with the violent thrusts seeming to go deeper and deeper into Neal’s core. The victim of this vicious attack longed to pass out, but it didn’t happen just yet. He had to endure hearing Collins’ raspy breathing, smell his sweat, and ultimately feel the scorching hotness spurt inside of him. It burned as sharply as a branding iron. Neal stayed conscious just long enough to feel Collins lean over his back and hiss in his ear.

“Philip Kramer sends his regards, Neal. When you screw with him, you’re the one who ultimately gets fucked.”


	2. The Rescue

Mozzie resigned himself to forming a temporary alliance with a Fed. He would tolerate Peter Burke’s presence only until they found Neal and he and the young con man could make their next getaway. Even though the little bald man would utilize the G-man, he wasn’t about to share _every_ bit of intel with him. It was on a need to know basis. After all, just look at what a small conversation between Neal and Peter had started. Mozzie had tried to tell Neal about the pitfalls of that unnatural relationship, time after time, but usually his dire conjectures fell on deaf ears. Neal always had to learn the hard way.

Thanks to information from Neal’s latest love conquest, his rescuers had a lead. Maya, being a native of the island as well as the proprietress of the local watering hole, was a wealth of knowledge. While plying the locals with alcohol, she was privy to gossip from those who were plugged in to the latest happenings. Now they knew that Collins had captured Neal and, at present, was keeping him prisoner in Henry Dobbs’ compound until he could arrange a flight outbound for the States. Mozzie and Peter had to intercede before that happened.

The two advance scouts initially scoped out Dobbs’ place with binoculars from a nearby promontory. It appeared to be a busy hive of activity at the moment because the most powerful man on the island was preparing for his usual party bash to pay off his cronies that even included the chief of police. How handy! Trucks were coming in like a caravan ferrying food, booze, flowers, and linens. A plan formed in Mozzie’s mind.

“C’mon, Suit,” he cajoled Peter as they made their way down to the crude road that wound around the hills to the estate’s entrance.

“Now, lie down right here,” Mozzie commanded like a drill sergeant as he pointed to the dirt at his feet.

Peter looked at the bossy little man as if he had suddenly lost touch with reality. “Are you out of your mind, Mozzie?”

“Do you really want to help Neal, or is that just lip service?” Mozzie questioned as he stared Peter down. “We’re going to stop the next truck that comes down this road by hook or crook. I see dust in the distance, so it shouldn’t be long before an oncoming vehicle reaches this point. Like it or not, this is my show, Suit, and you’re going to be the designated red herring unless you decide to bail.”

Peter glared at the bespectacled tyrant, but finally capitulated and flattened himself in the rutted lane. As expected, the lumbering truck came to a stop as it approached, and two occupants got out to investigate. Mozzie immediately stepped from behind a tree. Somehow, he had managed to conceal a pistol under his voluminous Hawaiian shirt, and that weapon was now firmly gripped in his fist and pointed at the surprised gawkers.

“My apologies, amigos, but we require your clothes and your truck,” he said in perfect Portuguese as Peter stared in shock. Con men were usually nonviolent, so this put a new spin on things and blew that preconception out of the water.

Nevertheless, he helped Mozzie hobble the two men, hand and foot, with cord that held bundles of white tablecloths in the back of the truck. Linen napkins made for suitable gags. The befuddled delivery men were then secreted deep in the wooded area far back from the road clad only in their skivvies. Mozzie climbed behind the wheel of their vehicle, and the two stand-ins proceeded along the lane at a sedate pace.

“Once we’re inside, we’ll split up and start our search for Neal,” Mozzie ordered. “I’ve got to keep a sharp eye out for Dobbs because he knows my face.”

“And Collins knows mine,” Peter answered.

“I doubt Collins is on the guest list, Suit. Dobbs is just tolerating that dude because somehow ‘Mister Big Cheese of the Island’ has been compromised.  Or maybe, Collins just offered more money than we did for protection.”

“So, we both have to be careful not to get made,” Peter summed up their dilemma.

“Do you always have to state the obvious?” Mozzie snarked. “Once we’re inside, we’ll divide and conquer. The house has two floors. I don’t think that Dobbs would keep Neal on the main level. That’s too risky. Some guest may inadvertently stumble over him while searching for a bathroom or something. So, you search the upstairs and I’ll check out the basement. I’ve heard that Dobbs has an extensive wine cellar, so that seems promising.”

“We’re not splitting up, Mozzie. We search together,” Peter said forcefully.

“What’s your problem, Suit?” Mozzie demanded to know.

“My problem is that I’m afraid if you’re the one to find Neal, the two of you will disappear into the ether!”

Mozzie was now giving Peter a laser stare. “Suit, exactly how do you see yourself in this drama? You claim that you came to Cape Verde to warn Neal about Collins. Well, that was a moot point because you were late to the party. The wheels were already turning. Now you want to ‘rescue’ Neal. Maybe that all stems from guilt because your little ‘X’ on a map put a bull's-eye on his back. So, yeah, I get that. But what do you expect will happen if we do manage to get Neal out of Collins’ clutches? What then, huh? It’s not as if we’re all joined at the hip. Neal and I _will_ disappear again, and you’re not invited along for the ride.”

“Okay, maybe I was careless and am to blame for this mess,” Peter admitted, “but now I need to fix what I broke, so that’s why I’m here.”

Mozzie glared right back and was finally pushed to the point where he said what was really on his mind. “Maybe I’m being paranoid, so forgive me when my devious mind visualizes other motives, Suit. I’m thinking this whole cockeyed thing is about Neal being punished for his past sins. It’s about the Nazi treasure and payback for your wife’s abduction. You came to watch Collins mete it out for you while your hands remain lily white!”

Color had suddenly flamed on Peter’s cheeks and he struggled to keep his temper in check. “That’s a discussion that I think we should table for now,” he answered through clenched teeth.

Mozzie suspected that he must have hit a nerve. The FBI man wanted more time to regroup and formulate a plausible denial. Maybe it was more troubling if the dyed-in-the-wool FBI agent didn’t even consciously realize that his actions may have been the engine driving this train.

“Fine!” Mozzie snapped. “However, right now, my vote is the only one that counts, so I’m saying the basement merits a look-see.”

At first, the two hunters did what was expected by lugging in a hamper filled with table linens. They were but a few of the many laborers arranging crystal on long dining banquettes and vases of exotic flowers around the room. Nobody gave them a second glance, so it was easy for them to slip away unnoticed. They nonchalantly meandered through the kitchen and back hallways until they found a door that looked promising. They quietly slipped through and, with the aid of Mozzie’s penlight, negotiated a flight of steep concrete steps. At first, they saw only a huge water heater and a complicated water purification system with tanks, motors, and miles of PVC piping. They carefully stepped around those pieces of apparatus and continued on. They passed a sizable room stocked with shelves of wine and assorted liquors. They hit pay dirt down a dark hall that led to the back of the cellar.

At first, Mozzie found his light illuminating what appeared to be a barred enclosure. As he and Peter stepped closer, they could visualize a body laying facedown inside the cell. It was Neal and he was ominously still. The side of his head looked wet, and the dim light made it appear as if he was lying in a puddle of black ink. Peter caught his breath because the coppery smell made it clear that it was really congealing blood. The FBI agent’s first thought was that someone had put a bullet through the young con man’s brain, and Peter thought he might be sick. As he whispered Neal’s name in anguish, Mozzie was already at work with a set of lock picks. In seconds, the little man was kneeling beside his friend and feeling for a pulse in his neck. Neal moaned at his touch, and Peter began to breathe again.

“It’s a deep head laceration, not a bullet wound,” Mozzie said succinctly as he did a quick examination. “But he’s in bad shape and we have to get him out of here now.”

Peter didn’t answer because he had just noticed that Neal’s white linen slacks were hitched low on his hips and the back of those pants were soaked with blood. He just stared because no words would come. Mozzie followed Peter’s line of sight and didn’t have any trouble vocalizing a string of curse words before taking charge once again.

“Don’t worry, Suit, I’ll find out who was responsible for that later, and rest assured that I’ll make them pay. But right now, you need to focus. Look for an exit down here that will get us outside without retracing our steps.”

Peter finally managed to tear his eyes away from the cruel, bloody debauchery and went on a quick exploration. He soon found an egress from the basement that led to a small access road behind the house.

“Okay, Suit,” Mozzie said hastily, “pull the truck around back and then bring in a hamper with just a few tablecloths. We’ll put Neal inside, cover him with the linens, and sneak him out of this hellhole. We’ll go to my place. Nobody knows about my hideaway, so we’ll be safe.”

“He needs a hospital with doctors, Mozzie. He could be dying!” Peter objected.

The little man pulled himself up to his full height and glared at Peter. “No doctors, no hospital, Suit! That’s non-negotiable right now. If you’re squeamish, I’ll drop you off somewhere along the way and take care of things myself.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, Mozzie,” Peter threatened as he caught the car keys that Mozzie tossed in his direction.


	3. The Aftermath

It was difficult for Mozzie not to put the pedal to the metal as they circled Dobb’s sprawling house and made for the open road. Once clear of inquisitive eyes, he sped along at an urgent clip. They climbed high up into the mountains for a quarter of an hour, finally pulling to a stop at a long, low-slung house with a magnificent view of the ocean.

The two men gently extricated a semi-conscious Neal from the linen cart and carried him inside Mozzie’s spacious residence to an airy room with a king-size bed. Peter sat down gingerly beside Neal and tried calling his name, but he got no response. Mozzie returned in a few minutes with a basin of warm water, soap, various small glass bottles, tubes of ointment, and copious stacks of gauze. He also had his phone to his ear and Peter hoped that the little tyrant had reconsidered and was calling a doctor.

Peter marveled at how gently Mozzie set upon his task of cleaning the head wound. When it was finally exposed, Peter saw that it wasn’t very wide, but it was deep and ugly.

“Head wounds tend to gush like a fountain because the scalp has a copious blood supply,” Mozzie explained. “It’s going to need a few stitches to get it closed, but once it’s healed, Neal will be as handsome as ever.”

“He could be bleeding _inside_ his head,” Peter argued. “Did you ever think of that, ‘Doctor Kill Me Quick?’”

“Well, aren’t you just a ray of sunshine, Suit. Try to think positively and not be a ‘Debbie Downer.’ This isn’t the first time Neal’s had his bell rung, and he’s always managed to survive.”

“But is this the first time that he’s been raped?” Peter whispered softly.

Mozzie hesitated for just a second before he answered just as quietly. “I wouldn’t tell you that even if I knew the answer.”

Just then, they heard a young voice calling out from the lanai. Mozzie quickly exited Neal’s room with Peter following on his heels. A smiling teenage boy stood waiting patiently and grinned even wider when Mozzie flipped him the keys to the laundry van.

“Drive it towards Dobbs’ compound, Hector, and leave it just at the bend in the road before you reach the entrance to the grounds. Make yourself scarce after that because people will come to investigate and they’re going to find a couple of half-naked guys not far away.”

“Si, Senhor Sotoro, I can do that,” the boy promised as he scampered toward the truck.

“Is that kid even old enough to drive?” Peter asked with his brow furrowed.

“People on this island become self-sufficient at an early age, Suit. Hector will improvise and probably use a cushion from the rattan furniture so that he can see over the steering wheel,” Mozzie answered breezily.

“So, that’s who you called—not a doctor,” Peter surmised.

“I told you, Suit, no doctors or hospitals,” Mozzie stressed again. “Now, you can make yourself scarce, too, so that I can get back to taking care of Neal. I don’t need your help anymore.”

“Read my lips, Mozzie,” Peter said stubbornly. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m dug in for the duration!”

“Whatever,” Mozzie mumbled as he disappeared into Neal’s room and shut the door firmly behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~

“It was like pulling teeth to get answers out of Mozzie, who steadfastly locked the door to Neal’s room anytime that he left. He finally imparted some information on the second day as he carried out more sheets that were streaked with blood.

“Neal’s awake and making sense now instead of rambling. The sutures holding his head laceration together look good with no signs of infection. I think I’m going to make him some soup later and see how that stays down.”

“But he’s still bleeding from that other trauma,” Peter murmured as he indicated the stained linen.

“Yeah, that may take a while to finally settle down,” Mozzie admitted.

“Did he say if it was Dobbs or Collins who did that to him?” Peter was determined to know.

“It was Collins,” Mozzie answered. “He told Neal that he was delivering a message from Philip Kramer.”

When Peter just gaped in disbelief, Mozzie added his own sentiments. “Man, you Feds are a real piece of work. Sometimes, you manage to outdo us criminals when it comes to being nefariously evil.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Finally, on day three, Peter was fed up with being relegated to a state of exile.

“I want to see and talk to Neal—now!” he confronted Mozzie menacingly as he stood with his hands on his hips.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you, Suit. Did you ever consider that?” Mozzie taunted.

“Well, I want to hear him say that to my face, Nurse Nancy,” Peter retorted. “Now, I can either go around you or walk right over you—your choice, little man.”

“Wooo, I’m shaking in my boots, Mr. Tough Guy,” Mozzie snarked as he gave a fake shiver. “So, go ahead, barge right on in, but don’t say I didn’t warn you about a less than warm welcome.”

Peter ignored the warning and strode over to the bedroom door which, to his amazement, was now unlocked. He opened it slowly and stepped into a room filled with natural light from a bay window overlooking an amazing vista of palm trees and blue ocean. Neal was lying on the bed with his back to Peter staring out at the magnificent sight.

“Neal,” Peter murmured softly, “how are you feeling?”

When Neal neither turned toward him nor answered Peter’s question, the anxious FBI agent moved around the bed into Neal’s line of sight and pulled a wicker chair close. Neal finally met Peter’s gaze with blue eyes that seemed fathomless.

“Peter, why are you still here?” he asked softly.

“Because I’ve been worried about you, Buddy. Mozzie’s been keeping me away, but I had to see you for myself.”

“Well, now you’ve seen me, so you can leave. Go back to New York to your loving wife and your loyal dog and your comfortable niche at the Bureau,” Neal said dismissively.

“Neal, I just can’t pretend that things are okay after everything that’s happened to you. You didn’t deserve that,” Peter insisted.

“Be honest, Peter. What do you think I did deserve?” Neal asked quizzically.

“Not that!” Peter answered vehemently. “Collins needs to be held accountable for his assault on you, and Kramer, too, for ordering it.”

Neal closed his eyes dismissively and didn’t respond.

“Neal?” Peter prodded.

At Peter’s urging, Neal opened his eyes sluggishly. “And just how is that going to work, Peter? Who am I supposed to tell? Should I write a little note to Reese Hughes or maybe the Department of Justice and inform them that they have a perverted predator in their ranks who takes his cues from a disgruntled and vindictive old man? That should go over like a lead balloon. The Feds will never admit that they have monsters in their closets. And any sad little story that I choose to tell them is definitely not going to get me off the Most Wanted list because nobody will believe it.”

“Maybe I can intercede …,” Peter started to say but Neal cut in abruptly.

“Just leave it alone, Peter! If you care about me at all, you’ll walk away and leave me with my dignity intact. You can get on with your life and let me get on with mine. I suppose the real question is whether you _can_ let me go.”

“That’s really a hard thing to do,” Peter confessed, “letting you go, I mean. We were close for a long time and we made a good team.”

“Sometimes that was true, but not always,” Neal reminded him. “If you’re honest, Peter, you’ll admit that there were a lot of times when we weren’t even close to being on the same page. Face facts, we’re poles apart in our outlook on things. You want your life to be neat and orderly and by the book, and I thrive on chaos, risk-taking, and breaking rules. You like black and white with not a hint of gray, but that’s where I live tucked away in those gray areas, Peter. That’s my comfort zone. I had to compromise my true nature for a long time, so maybe now I need to find myself again.”

“So, none of it was real?” Peter asked.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Neal retorted.

Peter was silent for a long time. Finally, he asked the question that had been haunting him ever since Mozzie had instilled the idea in his head.

“Neal, do you think that I deliberately led Collins to you?”

“Did you?” Neal asked quietly.

“I’ve been asking myself that question over and over for the last few days, and I really don’t have an answer,” Peter answered honestly “If it was subconsciously intentional or just a stupid careless blunder, the fact still remains that my actions set him on your trail. I’m so very sorry because I can’t offer any excuses either way.”

Neal was quiet for several minutes and resumed staring out into the vast ocean. Peter waited him out until the young man finally spoke again.

“You know, right before this whole thing went down, I overheard Kramer tell you the story of the frog and the scorpion. Of course, he was warning you that I was the scorpion who would eventually cause you harm. Maybe, in our own ways, we’re both scorpions, Peter. It’s in our natures, and if we had stayed together, we’d just keep hurting each other.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter awoke the next morning to another beautiful day in paradise. He would have plenty of time to enjoy his solitude and ponder because he discovered that he was all alone. Mozzie and Neal were gone.


	4. Redemption

Mozzie realized that the situation with Peter Burke was getting sticky, and that didn’t bode well for Neal. The paranoid little man found that trust was a difficult concept for him to internalize, and he worried that the G-man would be the cause of Neal’s undoing yet again. There were no good options when it came to the FBI, even if one of their minions claimed to care about Neal and have his best interests at heart. Mozzie didn’t believe a word of Peter’s rhetoric and wasn’t about to let his best friend crash and burn again. It was time to move on.

Mozzie knew that Kyle Collins was still lurking around Cape Verde, and it was only a matter of time before someone made a connection between “James Maine” and “Barry Sotoro.” Mozzie didn’t want to wait around for him to show up on their doorstep. Right now, the FBI bounty hunter was still going from marina to marina, offering his stupendous bribe hoping to once more get Neal within his grasp. The stupid cretin thought that getting off the tiny island by sea was Neal’s only option for escape. Apparently, Collins wasn’t thinking out of the box. Too bad for him!

Besides being paranoid, Mozzie was also resourceful. The main agricultural crop on Cape Verde was corn, and modern-day farmers tended to their fields of tall, green leafy stalks by periodically treating them for invasive pests. That meant crop-dusting. Mozzie had bartered a deal with one of the locals—he would trade his pristinely refurbished vintage convertible with white walls and impressive fins in exchange for an old barnstormer biplane.

Neal had asked no questions as Mozzie hustled him away from their refuge in the pre-dawn hours. When confronted by the sight of a well-used prop plane, he merely quirked an eyebrow and asked if Mozzie knew how to fly it.

“I consider myself to be a Renaissance Man, mon frère,” Mozzie answered proudly. “I know a great deal about many esoteric things. Once I’m in the cockpit, it will all come back to me just like riding a bike.”

Neal didn’t look convinced, but he, nonetheless, fatalistically climbed in behind his friend and hoped for the best. Mozzie was right—the necessary know-how did return as he taxied across the field and urged the little plane to soar by applying pressure on the joystick. Soon they were wafting as gracefully as a sea gull across tree tops and then out over the tiny islands in the archipelago that made up Macaronesia. It was just under 400 air miles to their next destination—the city of Dakar in Senegal on the west coast of Africa.

A sturdy and reliable Range Rover was their next conveyance vehicle as they followed the coastline north and then east through the vast arid plains of Mauritania. Many dusty days later they reached cosmopolitan Morocco which lay just across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain on the Iberian Peninsula. The trip had been a grueling one, traversing sometimes dangerous areas, and Mozzie couldn’t help but notice that Neal was looking pale and exhausted. All through their long odyssey, Neal had never complained and never asked where they were going or even questioned their ultimate destination. He followed Mozzie blindly and just kept putting one foot in front of the other each day like a robot. It seemed that he really didn’t care about anything. His apathetic, flat affect was worrisome, but Mozzie didn’t know the right words to say to make it better. He feared that maybe it would never get better for Neal.

Morocco felt like a safe port in the storm for the moment, and the two men stopped to recharge their physical and emotional batteries for a few weeks in Casablanca. Mozzie plied his friend with sumptuous meals and incredible vintage wines in the wealth of high-end eateries. He even tried to entice Neal from his funk by suggesting that maybe the two of them could open their own restaurant and dub it “Rick’s Place II” in a shout out to Humphrey Bogart’s fictional establishment in the old classic movie. Neal just stared at Mozzie with vacant eyes.

Finally, in desperation, Mozzie dared to venture into the unknown. He confronted Neal one night after a lackluster game of chess.

“Neal, do you want to talk about—you know—your feelings?” Mozzie asked timidly.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Moz,” the young man answered tiredly.

“I think there is,” Mozzie corrected his friend. “You endured a hellish experience, mon frère, and stuff like that—well, you can’t pretend it didn’t happen, and you can’t pretend that it didn’t affect you in many ways. It’s gonna leave scars, and I’m not just talking about the physical ones. You’ve been stifling your emotions ever since that day, and that kind of behavior can’t be healthy.”

Neal scowled at his friend. “What do you want me to say, Moz? Collins _happened_ , but it’s all over and done and I’m still living and breathing. What occurred back on Cape Verde was probably all my fault. I brought it on myself because I should have been more cautious when I went to Dobbs for help. I was stupid, and I paid the price.”

Mozzie forced himself to take a deep breath before he responded. “Being _raped_ —yeah, let’s get that word out there—is never the victim’s fault!” he all but roared. “Rape is a violent act of domination and control by a wicked, stronger person over a weaker one. Collins did what he did because he wanted to break you, Neal. Are you going to let that happen?”

“Exactly what do you want me to do?” Neal asked in exasperation.

Mozzie stared myopically at the young man sitting across from him. “I want you to feel something, my friend. I want you to get angry, really angry—and you can direct that anger at Collins for what he did to you, or me for brokering a deal with double-crossing Dobbs, or even Peter Burke for being the catalyst who put the whole debacle in motion. I know you’re keeping that emotion all bottled up inside. You’re deeply depressed, and depression is the result of anger turned inward. So, please let it out to see the light of day, Neal, so that you can begin the process of healing your soul.”

Neal just shook his head, then stood up and retreated to his bedroom. He didn’t even have the energy to slam the door. Mozzie, however, was energized. He was up early the next morning banging on that very door.

“Get your stuff together, mon frère, ‘cause we’re moving out,” he loudly announced. “In case you’re interested, we’re going to Tangier to take the ferry over to Spain.”

Spain was a delightful country incorporating diverse cultures and flavors. Mozzie and Neal traveled widely through the Mediterranean areas of Catalonia, Andalusia, and Valencia enjoying spicy gazpacho and paella as well as robust Rioja wine. They tramped through heritage-site castles in the northern province of Castile, and finally ended up in Basque Country in the Pyrenees Mountains which straddle the border between Spain and France. They were spectators at jai-alai matches at a stadium in Pamplona and witnessed the traditional “running of the bulls” in its streets. Mozzie kept Neal busy, not allowing him to  sit still long enough to escape into the fortress of his troubled mind.

Although Neal did accompany Mozzie everywhere, he didn’t take much interest in his surroundings. He usually retired early in the evening and tended to sleep late into the morning hours. Their chess games had waned, with Neal usually begging off by saying that he was tired.

“That’s just as well, mon frère,” Mozzie snarked one night. “You really aren’t a worthy opponent when your head’s not in the game.”

Mozzie was at a loss. He had said his piece awhile back and felt there was nothing else that he could do. It was now all on Neal’s shoulders to bring himself back to the land of the living. However, in one last Hail Mary play, he dragged Neal to Provence in the south of France. Mozzie had managed to rent a small stone cottage nestled within the bucolic acres of an old estate vineyard. There was a magnificent view of luscious grapes on the vine outside their windows, and majestic purple fields of lavender just down the road.

Mozzie had read that renowned artists like Cézanne, van Gough, Renoir, Picasso, and Matisse had migrated annually to this very spot to take advantage of the clear, pristine light to enhance their paintings. So, being a helpful friend, he purchased art supplies for Neal and was finally gratified to see the taciturn young man take an interest in the brushes and oils and assorted blank canvases. It was a lovely peaceful place here, a magnificent tableau with no urban distractions. Now Mozzie reasoned that he may have been wrong to keep Neal constantly on the move. Maybe what he really needed was quiet solitude.

Neal’s little buddy was hopeful when the troubled man set his easel up outside and began painting the landscape around him. The colors were muted and soft and Mozzie was again reminded of just how talented the young artist was. Neal, however, always found fault with his pieces. He complained that he couldn’t seem to make the far-off colors of the horizon coalesce, nor do justice to the shades of purple in the lavender. He was his own worst critic.

With Neal now preoccupied, Mozzie found himself with time on his hands and an opportunity to examine his own mind. He was never one for deep introspection. The little bald man accepted the fact that he had his own hang ups as well as a deep sense of paranoia that sharply delineated the scope of his life. He could count on one hand the people whom he trusted. Of course, there was Neal, but there was also benevolent Mr. Jeffries from his childhood group home in Detroit, and gentle, kind-hearted June in New York.

Then Mozzie smiled as he added the brilliant computer hacker, Sally—no last name, thank you very much. They had shared one night of bliss that had nothing to do with main frames. Of course, neither of them had any unrealistic expectations that might ruin a beautiful friendship. Mozzie was fond of Sally, but he was really in love with her keen intellect and her technical expertise that rivaled his own.

A recent idea had been percolating in Mozzie’s mind, and even though he and Neal seemed to be living in another century, the little house was connected to the modern world via Wi-Fi. So, one day Mozzie contacted his female cohort. They were actually skyping one afternoon in deep collaboration on Mozzie’s plan when Neal came through the door with a canvas in his hand and a frustrated expression on his face.

He took no notice of Mozzie because he was staring intently at his painting. Suddenly, a dark look replaced his usual bland countenance, and Mozzie was stunned when the young man snatched a butcher knife from a wooden block on the counter and began slashing through the canvas in a manic frenzy. When it lay in tatters at his feet, he then grabbed a ceramic mug and hurled it against the stone fireplace where it shattered into a million pieces.

“Gotta go, Sally, there’s a storm brewing,” Mozzie said hastily as he grabbed his laptop and made tracks for the door.

After dodging several plates that sailed over his head, he ran out into the tiny courtyard and waited nervously as more noisy devastation occurred within the walls of the tiny cottage. After a very long fifteen minutes, the destructive and wrathful tornado seemed to have lost its lethal strength and intensity. Mozzie breathed a sigh of relief when things became quiet once more, and he dared to peak in the small kitchen window. He saw a bewildered Neal sitting on the floor amidst piles of broken debris. Mozzie was relatively sure that the worst was over, but he was still a bit cautious as he stepped through the door.

“Well, mon frère, you really did a number on the décor,” he said drolly from the threshold.

Neal seemed to snap back to reality as he looked around him at the mess that he had created.

“Yeah, I guess I did,” he answered in an awed voice.

Then a dazzling smile transformed Neal’s face and he began laughing—deep belly laughs that went on and on and made tears stream down his face as he gasped for breath. The mirth was contagious because Mozzie suddenly found himself sliding down to the floor beside Neal and giggling uncontrollably as well. When the effervescent glee was finally reduced to embarrassing hiccups, Mozzie put his arm around his friend.

“Welcome back, Neal,” he whispered, so very relieved that the violated man had finally allowed his anger to escape. Mozzie hoped that it was the first step of a healing catharsis. Then he reminded his buddy that they had a really big mess to clean up and a very long shopping list of replacement crockery to purchase.

“Thank you, Moz,” Neal said sincerely as he smiled fondly at his friend. “Suddenly, I’m feeling energized. Maybe now it’s my turn to tell you that it’s time to move on. I’m thinking Paris and everything that entails.”

“Are we talking about things like the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and the Louvre?” Mozzie asked innocently.

“Definitely the Louvre,” Neal said with a twinkle in his eye.


	5. Retribution

Peter Burke had made the long trek back to New York after finding himself abandoned on Cape Verde. He was undecided how much to share with Hughes. Maybe he should respect Neal’s wishes and not reveal the embarrassing details of the brutal assault and rape. However, letting Collins and Kramer get away with their malicious acts didn’t sit well with Peter. Above all, he believed in justice. The emotionally-torn FBI agent was saved from making an immediate decision because he found that his return was shrouded in disgrace. Since he had chosen to ignore a direct order to stand down after Caffrey’s escape, he faced consequences. He was immediately banished to the caves of the evidence locker as punishment.

He now punched a time clock like a probie under the beady-eyed stare of the lord of this little kingdom, Agent Patterson. Peter tried to endure the hardship so that he could keep his badge and still get a paycheck. No one had told him the length of his sentence, and he hoped it wouldn’t be for life. Elizabeth was the one person who commiserated, and they had lengthy discussions over their evening meals.

“Peter, Neal was right,” she said one evening. “What good would it do for him to report the assault? It’s not going to change his status. He’ll still be a wanted man on the run facing a life in prison if he returns, and I doubt that anyone would take his claim seriously. Collins certainly isn’t going to cop to it, nor is Phil Kramer going to admit that he ordered Collins to do it. You didn’t witness the act first-hand, so you couldn’t sign a document saying that you did. It’s a no-win situation for Neal and that’s very sad.”

“I know you’re right, Hon, and what you say makes sense. But I want justice for Neal, and I think that I have to be the one to try and get it for him because he can’t get it for himself.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Peter, you need to realize just how precarious your position is right now at the Bureau. You’re hanging on by the skin of your teeth. If you start making waves, they’ll disavow you in a New York minute. You have to let this go. Neal wouldn’t want you to fall on your sword for him.”

Peter looked crestfallen. “To tell you the truth, El, I’m not sure what Neal would want when it concerns me. I know that I no longer have his trust. I think that deep down he truly believes that I intentionally led Collins to his door, and nothing that I said removed that doubt from his mind. I’ve lost him in so many ways.”

“Maybe you’ve lost him from your side, Peter, but be happy that he’s finally free and can enjoy a life of his own far away from his jailers. I doubt that the Bureau would have really let him go at the end of his probation. I wouldn’t put it past them to sneak a last-minute clause or rider into the fine print of his agreement. I truly believe that the deck was stacked against him from the very beginning, and the system was out to get him from the moment he stepped out of Sing Sing.

Just think about all the times that conniving agents like Garrett Fowler tried to frame Neal, or people like Kimberly Rice put his life in jeopardy to make a case. And let us not forget the Machiavellian machinations of your old mentor, Philip Kramer, to spirit him away from you to Washington. When that plot fizzled, the nasty old man illegally dispatched a United States federal agent to a country with no extradition treaty with this country to mete out his revenge. Poor Neal was used and abused, time after time, and couldn’t do anything about it because he was tied to you on a leash.”

Peter heard the wisdom in her words, but he was still troubled. “I just wish that we had parted on better terms instead of under a cloud of doubt and distrust.”

El smiled. “Listen, my dear husband, over the years I’ve learned a very important fact about our handsome, headstrong Neal. That young man may have his faults, but deep down, he has a good heart and he forgives the special people in his life.”

Peter winced. “But the question remains—can I forgive myself?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Week after dreary week passed down in the evidence locker cave. Peter counted knock-off watches and prosthetic eyes under Agent Patterson’s glowering stare. For eight hours a day, he was usually isolated in a congested little aisle amongst boxes of other evidence that had to be collated, bagged, and tagged. It was rare for him to encounter another human being. He brown-bagged his lunches and ate alone. Only on mild days did he see the sky as he unwrapped his deviled ham sandwich in a small, fenced-in area overgrown with weeds. Peter had come to accept the fact that he was a pariah, and he had no idea what the future held for him at the Bureau. The only highpoint of his day was punching out on the dot of five and leaving it all behind him.

Then one day several months later, a stupendous thing happened. He had gotten an unexpected call from Diana on his cellphone.

“Peter, if you can get to a television, you’ve got to tune into CNN!” she said in an excited rush. “Believe me, you won’t want to miss this.”

Thoughts like another 911 terrorist attack initially ran through Peter’s confused and worried mind as he rushed into Agent Patterson’s office. The head of the evidence locker already had the small flat screen on his desk tuned in to breaking news from the Atlanta-based network. Both men stared at the screen as footage showed Agent Philip Kramer being led in handcuffs from his DC Art Crimes Unit to an awaiting black sedan parked at the curb. One of his escorts put a hand on the top of the glowering man’s head and pushed him, none too gently, into the back seat of the vehicle. The scene then cut away to another arrest. Agent Kyle Collins, similarly handcuffed, was doing the perp walk from the steps of the FBI’s Office of Professional Responsibility. In the foreground, a young news commentator with perfectly coiffed hair and a somber expression on her face was beginning her spiel.

“The Washington DC FBI began getting their house in order today by arresting two of their own. Agent Philip Kramer, longtime head of the distinguished Art Crimes Division here in the District, was arrested for possession and distribution of child pornography. Kramer has over thirty years invested in his career with the FBI and is a well-respected expert in his field. However, according to authorities, he had another vile and despicable trade. He was working in tandem with Agent Kyle Collins, another dedicated agent assigned to the Office of Professional Responsibility, which, ironically, investigates incidents and possible suspicions of law-breaking and professional misconduct attributed to agents on the force.

After an anonymous tip came into the Bureau’s hotline, the FBI began a sub rosa investigation into the pair. Warrants were finally obtained, and their personal computers were seized and examined by teams of forensic specialists. What they found cleverly hidden on each was a cache of pornographic material involving children as well as evidence of clandestine offshore accounts used by the two men to hide proceeds from the distribution and sale of that material.

Both men allege that their computers were hacked, and that they are being framed by someone with an ax to grind. That will probably be the basis of their defense when they stand trial for over two hundred felony counts of child pornography and distribution that carry very stiff penalties. I’m going to quote what our own legal specialists have told me regarding these types of charges.

‘According to the law, any person who distributes, promotes, or finances the distribution or promotion of child sexually abusive material, receives material intended for distribution, or conspires or attempts any of the previous listed actions is guilty of a felony and a prison sentence of up to seven years.’

CNN has been told by an inside source that the federal prosecutor intends to present each of the two hundred incidents separately, so if found guilty on each count, these two men are looking at jail sentences that will far outdistance their natural lives.”

Agent Patterson turned off the television in disgust.

“Philip Kramer is a repulsive embarrassment,” he sneered. “That just goes to show that you really never know a person. You only see the obvious, not the ugly rot that they’re hiding inside. That’s why I like working down here with evidence. Evidence doesn’t lie—it is what it is, and you can’t refute it.”

Peter was still dumbfounded. “I’m sure Kramer and Collins have made enemies. Maybe someone did set them up,” he finally said out loud.

Patterson scoffed. “Oh sure, he and his buddy will try to act all innocent, but those offshore accounts are a smoking gun that’s going to put a nail in their coffins. But, I seriously doubt that either of them will serve out their time. Convicts hate cops almost as much as they hate perverted pedophiles, so their days are numbered. The only thing that might save them is if they share a cell in solitary until one of them croaks from old age.”

The few moments of shared camaraderie came to an end as Patterson instructed Peter to get back to work. Peter obediently retreated back to his cubbyhole with a myriad of thoughts tumbling through his head. Patterson might be a pain in the ass, but he was right about one thing. You never really knew someone’s true nature until a set of circumstances exposed their flaws and you felt blindsided by that knowledge. Well, now the shit had hit the fan and Kramer and Collins were covered in it. Peter could only hope that wherever Neal was right now, he had somehow heard of his enemies’ disgraceful fall.

Then Peter had an epiphany. Of course, Neal knew! Peter could almost hear Mozzie delivering one of his annoying little quotes—“Revenge is a dish best-served cold.” He and Neal were meting out their own form of justice. A smile broke out on Peter’s face. Yep, Kramer and Collins were learning that payback was a real bitch!

~~~~~~~~~~

Regimented Agent Patterson was busy tidying up his desk. He was a fastidious man bordering on OCD. Suddenly, his bit of housekeeping was interrupted when he heard a strange sound far-off down the hall. He set out to investigate the source, and, to his confused surprise, found Peter Burke rocking back and forth in his chair holding his sides and laughing hysterically. When Peter looked up at his supervisor, the gales of delight increased, and the seemingly demented man wasn’t capable of getting a coherent word out between the gleeful spasms. Patterson just shook his head and decided that he really didn’t want to know.


End file.
